In front of me I have two so-called “baby books”, both given to me as presents, in which I was supposed to chronicle the infant achievements of my sons, George and Johnny. George’s has been meticulously filled in: everything from the names of the midwives who delivered him, to the order in which his teeth came through, his first illness (conjunctivitis) and an account of his first Christmas so overwrought with emotion that it makes the Nativity itself seem like the warm-up act.
And Johnny’s baby book? Empty. Not a thing. Not even a record of his birth weight, or his middle names — which, I must admit, I am struggling to remember. That’s not all. On my computer, there are more than 2,000 photographs of George’s first few years — and 300 of Johnny’s.
So do I love Johnny less? Certainly not! The very idea of it. Yet if this isn’t favouritism — the urgent desire to document for posterity every twitch, dribble and grunt of one child, while blithely consigning the other to obscurity — what is?
Read the full story: The Telegraph
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